sleep’s haze.
“Fifteen minutes and I’ll call you back. Oh, and Daddy . . . thanks.”
Governor sends troops to Bankstowne after explosion . Rick’s headline story jumped off the front page at early risers in Bankstowne who usually read their paper quietly over a cup of coffee.
“I can’t believe this happened,” Roy said to Mary Beth as she read the story over his shoulder in shock. “Rick really is on top of things.” Roy’s pride in Rick’s work wasn’t dampened by the anguish he felt over the strike violence.
“It must be hard for him to write about all the bad things happening to our friends,” Mary Beth said.
“Some have become bitter enemies because of lost jobs and the threat of losing their homes.”
Rick had been sitting on his Whizzer motor bike in the dark of pre-dawn across the street from the Shops main gate since 5:30. He watched the caravan of National Guard transports pull up at 6:00 am and disembarked 200 bayonet-ready troops. Muscle spasms shot pain into his empty stomach at the sight. He hadn’t eaten or slept all night.
Rick clipped on his press pass and moved closer to hear what was said by the officer as he spoke to Sam Johnson and his staff inside the gate.
“Captain Thomas Scoggins reporting as ordered by Governor Mathews and Adjutant General Randolph Ackerman of the North Carolina National Guard. My men are deployed to secure the main entrance and have established a perimeter surrounding the facility,” Captain Scoggins said.
“Captain, we’re glad to see you. Our first bus load of workers will arrive shortly. That’s when your men need to be ready. I believe you have been briefed on the violence and clashes between the strikers and incoming workers. Is there anything else you need from me?” Sam asked. He’d already chewed his first cigar of the day to a stub.
“My men will be prepared to receive the busses at 0700 hours. Rest assured we are prepared for any contingency, sir.” Captain Scoggins wheeled an about face and instructed his First Sergeant to carry on with the orders of the day.
Rick flashed his press pass to go through the picket line and ranks of soldiers then hurried through the main gate to catch up to Sam Johnson.
“Mr. Johnson, can I have a word with you?”
Sam greeted him with a smirk, spitting bits of his chewed cigar and tobacco juice close enough to splatter on Rick’s shoes. “Well, look here, if it isn’t the cub reporter from the local college.”
“No sir,” Rick answered. He dug deep to stay civil and professional. “I’m still at the college, but I’m reporting this story for the Daily Journal. Can we speak on the record?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you, sir. I must inform you that because of the national interest in this strike, what you say could be picked up nationally by the Associated Press.”
“Is that a fact? In that case let’s go into my office and talk, young man.”
Sam’s office was comfortably decorated with an oversized executive desk in front of the back wall showcasing a near life-sized portrait of Thaddeus Banks. It was by far the cleanest office in the soot-covered building.
“Your daddy and his union friends made a big mistake in calling this strike,” Sam said, seated behind his desk.
Rick bit his lip to keep from saying something he would regret. He’d already lost the initiative of first strike to set the tone of the interview. “Sir, this interview isn’t about my Daddy. It’s about the company’s position concerning the grievances brought to the bargaining table over reduced benefits and the small pay increase offered in a booming economy. Coastline profits are up twelve percent over the past five years, but no reinvestment has been made in the equipment or facilities to improve working conditions. How do you respond to those grievances and requests for improvement by the union?”
“Requests? Son, you’ve lived here long enough to know the union doesn’t make requests.” Sam
“Fifteen minutes and I’ll call you back. Oh, and Daddy . . . thanks.”
Governor sends troops to Bankstowne after explosion . Rick’s headline story jumped off the front page at early risers in Bankstowne who usually read their paper quietly over a cup of coffee.
“I can’t believe this happened,” Roy said to Mary Beth as she read the story over his shoulder in shock. “Rick really is on top of things.” Roy’s pride in Rick’s work wasn’t dampened by the anguish he felt over the strike violence.
“It must be hard for him to write about all the bad things happening to our friends,” Mary Beth said.
“Some have become bitter enemies because of lost jobs and the threat of losing their homes.”
Rick had been sitting on his Whizzer motor bike in the dark of pre-dawn across the street from the Shops main gate since 5:30. He watched the caravan of National Guard transports pull up at 6:00 am and disembarked 200 bayonet-ready troops. Muscle spasms shot pain into his empty stomach at the sight. He hadn’t eaten or slept all night.
Rick clipped on his press pass and moved closer to hear what was said by the officer as he spoke to Sam Johnson and his staff inside the gate.
“Captain Thomas Scoggins reporting as ordered by Governor Mathews and Adjutant General Randolph Ackerman of the North Carolina National Guard. My men are deployed to secure the main entrance and have established a perimeter surrounding the facility,” Captain Scoggins said.
“Captain, we’re glad to see you. Our first bus load of workers will arrive shortly. That’s when your men need to be ready. I believe you have been briefed on the violence and clashes between the strikers and incoming workers. Is there anything else you need from me?” Sam asked. He’d already chewed his first cigar of the day to a stub.
“My men will be prepared to receive the busses at 0700 hours. Rest assured we are prepared for any contingency, sir.” Captain Scoggins wheeled an about face and instructed his First Sergeant to carry on with the orders of the day.
Rick flashed his press pass to go through the picket line and ranks of soldiers then hurried through the main gate to catch up to Sam Johnson.
“Mr. Johnson, can I have a word with you?”
Sam greeted him with a smirk, spitting bits of his chewed cigar and tobacco juice close enough to splatter on Rick’s shoes. “Well, look here, if it isn’t the cub reporter from the local college.”
“No sir,” Rick answered. He dug deep to stay civil and professional. “I’m still at the college, but I’m reporting this story for the Daily Journal. Can we speak on the record?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you, sir. I must inform you that because of the national interest in this strike, what you say could be picked up nationally by the Associated Press.”
“Is that a fact? In that case let’s go into my office and talk, young man.”
Sam’s office was comfortably decorated with an oversized executive desk in front of the back wall showcasing a near life-sized portrait of Thaddeus Banks. It was by far the cleanest office in the soot-covered building.
“Your daddy and his union friends made a big mistake in calling this strike,” Sam said, seated behind his desk.
Rick bit his lip to keep from saying something he would regret. He’d already lost the initiative of first strike to set the tone of the interview. “Sir, this interview isn’t about my Daddy. It’s about the company’s position concerning the grievances brought to the bargaining table over reduced benefits and the small pay increase offered in a booming economy. Coastline profits are up twelve percent over the past five years, but no reinvestment has been made in the equipment or facilities to improve working conditions. How do you respond to those grievances and requests for improvement by the union?”
“Requests? Son, you’ve lived here long enough to know the union doesn’t make requests.” Sam
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